Raindrops keep falling...

At long last, the monsoon arrives in Delhi – and I couldn’t be happier

 

It is an admission that is usually met with derision, but the monsoon is one of my favourite times of the year. There is something so magical about seeing those dark clouds gathering on the horizon, bearing the rain that will release the magnificent smell of petrichor from the parched earth, and bring solace to all those suffering from the blistering dry heat of a north Indian summer. I can spend entire days just gazing out of the window, watching the sky change colour, marveling at the rain as it comes crashing down, and luxuriating in the cool breeze that accompanies it.

 

This year, though, I had a long wait on my hands, as the monsoon was delayed in Delhi for one week, then another, and then yet another. Such was my frustration at this state of affairs that I decided to do something that I hadn’t done in my entire life. I decided that if the rains would not come to me, well then, I would go to where the rains were.

 

So it was that I arrived in Goa one cloudy afternoon, braving a flight from Delhi. The moment I stepped off the plane and smelt the moisture in the air, I was in heaven. As I drove to the hotel, the dark clouds threatened rain, which finally came pouring down after I had checked into my room. That was my cue to take up residence on the balcony and just watch the skies open up. 

 

And what a sight it was! The vast expanse of green lawn soaked up the moisture greedily, even as the tall palms swayed sinuously in the breeze. The grey sea roiled in the background, as the showers gathered in intensity and then abated to a gentle drizzle. The show was mesmerizing to behold and I was crushed with disappointment when the dark clouds finally moved on and sun came out in its full glory.

 

But this was Goa in the monsoons so, thankfully, I did not have to wait long for a repeat performance. In another hour or so, the clouds were back and so, in time, was the rain. This time I decided on a more immersive experience, and wandered along to the beach, where in solitary splendour – no one else was mad enough to venture out in this kind of weather – I allowed the rain to soak me to the skin. 

 

The experience transported me straight back to my childhood. In those more innocent days, the arrival of the rain meant stripped down to my chemise and running up to the terrace to get sopping wet in the rain. I would be joined by my best friend at the time and we would create a little swimming pool of sorts (by blocking all the water outlets) and skid around, whooping and hollering with joy.

 

I was very tempted to do the same sort of thing on the beach, but the presence of the lifeguard meant that I behaved like a responsible adult instead of a giddy child even though it went against my every instinct.

 

But like all good things, my Goa sojourn also came to an end. And it was back to Delhi, which was (still!) waiting for the monsoon to arrive. 

 

And then, finally, it did! I woke up one morning to see an overcast sky that promised rain later in the day. And sure enough, as I sipped on my first coffee of the day, the rain came pouring down, accompanied by a strong wind that whipped my hair all around my face and deposited a gentle spray of rainwater on me. The temperature dropped by a good 10 degrees and the mugginess of the atmosphere disappeared as the moisture was leached out of the air.

 

Monsoon had finally arrived in Delhi. And it was time to roll out all my monsoon rituals. Khichdi, alu chokha and begun bhaja for lunch. Kanda bhajiya for tea. And a walk in Sunder Nursery in the evening, as raindrops kept falling on my head. Bliss!

 

Life is for living

Getting back to normal – one baby step at a time 

 

So, finally, after many months of breathless anticipation, one of my fantasies came true. I finally managed to meet my girlfriends – in person, no less! – for coffee. (What did you think I was on about? Honestly, get your mind out of the…well, never mind!)

 

All three of us had been double jabbed, the requisite waiting period for immunity to kick in was over (during which one of us had even had a mild case of Covid), and we had been adhering to social distancing norms like our lives depended on it (spoiler alert: they did). So, as the case load in Delhi fell to under 200 daily cases and the positivity rate went below 1 per cent, we decided that it was time we threw caution – and our masks – to the wind and finally met up for a cup of coffee. 

 

That said, we were still wary enough not to risk congregating in a public place full of unmasked strangers. So, we opted to meet at the home of one of us, sitting in an airy, well-ventilated room, which looked out on a verdant lawn, exchanging elbow bumps rather than hugs as a concession to the virus. In the event, it was too hot a morning for coffee, so all three of us chose to have nimbu pani instead, loaded with lots of ice and a divine hint of kala namak. 

 

And as we quaffed our drinks and exchanged gossip, often talking over one another in our excitement to finally be together, it finally felt that life was returning to normal – or, at least, to a semblance of normalcy.

 

Don’t get me wrong. We had been Zooming one another regularly all through the pandemic so it wasn’t as if we had lost touch. But there was something truly special to finally see each other in the flesh, to comment on how good someone’s hair was looking, how perfect the other’s outfit was, and how much I loved the new nail polish they had experimented with during the lockdown. 

 

So, there we sat, goofy smiles on all our faces, feeling giddy with pleasure at being able to properly connect with one another at last. And when we said goodbye a couple of hours later, it was with tight hugs, the elbow bumps having been retired in an unspoken consensus.

 

I felt so good after this close encounter, that I was emboldened to plan another: this time a dinner at the home of one of our closest friends. It would be just the four of us – all of us double jabbed – and we would catch up over a few bottles of wine and maybe the odd glass of champagne. And so, for the first time ever since Covid struck, we sat down to dinner at a table with another couple, to feast on roast lamb, salad, quiche, and some delicious conversation.

 

It really felt as if a dam had burst, as all the stuff that had been festering deep within us came bubbling to the surface. We discussed everything under the sun: the state of the economy; the travels we had undertaken over the last few months; how their daughter was missing out on the teenage experience having been stuck at home for more than a year; the books we had read and written; and so much more. 

 

It felt so amazing to just sit down and talk. And talk to people that we could actually see, whose expressions we could react to in real time, instead of images on a screen whose visual cues were often impossible to pick up on. So novel was this feeling after a year and a half of isolation that we stayed up way later than we should have, exchanging gossip, reminiscing about past times, and storing up memories for the future.

 

As my husband and I drove back home that night, we promised ourselves that this would not be a one-off. We would be rejoining the world of the living, Coronavirus be damned. And, if you ask me, it’s not a moment too soon.

Free at last?

The lockdown may be over; but Covid most certainly is not

 

So, we finally have our freedom back. The second wave appears to have receded, the Covid numbers are down, the positivity rate is in single digits again, and the country is finally opening up for business. In Delhi, where I live, offices, shops and malls have been allowed to open (though, mystifyingly, public parks are still shut, though the danger of contracting Corona outdoors is minuscule) as have hair salons and restaurants. And like prisoners who have been cooped up inside four walls for too long, all of us have rushed out to enjoy our first taste of freedom.

 

And while I am as delighted as the next person about the prospect of finally being let out of my house, my first reaction to pictures of crowds at marketplaces and malls is to mutter to myself, “Hey guys, steady on!” 

 

Yes, Covid cases have come down sharply but surely you know that the virus is not done with us just yet. It is lurking in the shadows, waiting for another super-spreader event to cast its tentacles around us yet again, and send us crashing into the much-speculated-upon third wave. And then, we will back to looking desperately for hospital beds, putting out social media calls for oxygen cylinders, and mourning our dead even as we struggle to find room to cremate them with dignity.

 

If we don’t want to go back to those bad old days, we are simply going to have exercise our discretion and handle our new-found freedoms with responsibility. So, what does a judicious use of our freedom entail? What are the dos and don’ts we should adhere to, so that we avoid a third wave?

 

Well, here are some pointers:

 

·      Every time you think of stepping out of your house, ask yourself this simple question: is this trip really necessary? If the answer is yes (you are stepping out to make an essential purchase, for instance, or visit a doctor or call on a family member), then go ahead. But if your answer to this question is no, then it might be a good idea to just stay at home.

·      Choose your outings carefully. It’s okay to drop into a store at off-peak times to indulge in a bit of retail therapy, but wandering through a jampacked mall is a bad idea. It’s okay to visit a friend’s house for a small dinner party with a maximum of ten guests, but attending a wedding with a hundred people in attendance is fraught with risk. 

·      Keep your mask on at all times when you leave the house. It doesn’t matter if you have already been infected with Covid or that you have had both your shots of the vaccine. The only thing we know about Covid is that nobody really knows anything for sure. So, having had the disease or the vaccine is not necessarily a sure-shot defence against the virus. The only thing that we know works for sure is the mask. So, wear one whenever you are in public (or even better, wear two!)

·      Even though the lockdown is over, it still makes sense to keep your social bubble small. The fewer the number of people you interact with, the lesser your chances of getting infected. And remember, it is not strangers that are the greatest risk to you when it comes to getting Covid. It is always more likely that a trusted member of your inner circle will end up infecting you, because it is only with them that you let your guard down.

·      By now we know that infected surfaces are not the greatest risk to us; it is the air we breathe that hosts the contagion. So, as far as possible, avoid congregrating in small, enclosed spaces – especially if they are air-conditioned and lack cross-ventilation – where you end up breathing each other’s air. If you are going to spend time with other people, it’s best to do so in open spaces, where the risk of infection is far less. And God, and the Delhi government willing, hopefully we will be able to do that soon.

The middle ages

Sometimes it is better to embrace the ageing process rather than fight it endlessly

 

If you have watched Mare of Easttown (and if you haven’t, well, what are you waiting for?) you will know that Kate Winslet has deglamorized herself completely to play the detective in the title. She barely wears any make-up, her hair looks as if it hasn’t seen a brush in days, her facial warts are completely visible, and her fashion sense doesn’t seem to extend beyond plaid shirts and hoodies (though she does clean up nicely for the occasional date).

 

Winslet says she was determined to portray a middle-aged woman as they really exist in real life – with broadening middles, less than luminescent complexions, and wrinkles that hint at a life lived fully. So much so that when the director of the show offered to edit her ‘bulgy’ bits in a sex scene, Winslet refused to let him do so. That was her body in her mid 40s. And she wasn’t going to pretend it was any different. 

 

The result is an authentic portrait of a woman in middle age: a little battered around the edges, a wee bit worse for wear, but magnificent in her authenticity. 

 

I couldn’t help but think of Winslet and Mare of Easttown as I sat through the Friends Reunion, laughing and crying in equal measure. Having grown up with Friends, I feel a sense of kinship with the leading ladies of the show. And watching them age from season one to season ten was one way of making peace with my own ageing process as I went from my 20s to my 30s and then my 40s. 

 

But the Reunion show came as a bit of jolt. Here were Rachel, Monica and Pheobe in their 50s, each of them presenting a different attitude to ageing. Lisa Kudrow appeared to have embraced the passage of time, making peace with the inevitable wrinkles around her eyes, mouth and neck. In contrast, Jennifer Aniston looked as if she had been frozen in her mid-30s. There were the odd signs of ageing – the cheeks were a little fuller, the jaw just a tad less defined – but other than that she still looked like the Rachel we remembered from the last season of Friends. 

 

And then, there was Courtney Cox. Except that she was less Monica Geller and more a cautionary tale of the dangers of too much Botox and way too many fillers. Her forehead was a frozen field, her cheeks were far too plump, and her lips looked almost unnatural in their fullness. It was hard to reconcile that face with the fresh-faced beauty that we had met and loved in Friends. And it was even harder not to wish that she had left her face well alone – or, at least, known when to stop. 

 

Gazing at Cox’s altered visage made me appreciate Sarah Jessica Parker more than I have ever done since the days of Sex And The City. In her latest TV series, Divorce, Parker looks like the best version of her middle-aged self. There is no attempt to hide the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, her forehead crinkles up with disgust and anger ever so often, and her neck is lined like that of any other 50-something. But she still looks luminous, with sparkling eyes, springy hair, and a waistline that could give teenagers a run for their money. 

 

Of course, all these women have all the money, time, dermatologists and cosmetic surgeons in the world available to them, as they negotiate their middle ages in their own chosen way. But what about the rest of us, who barely have time (or frankly, the inclination) to exercise every day, to eat healthy at every meal, and spend every night rubbing anti-wrinkle cream into our faces and necks (never forget the neck!)?

 

Well, I guess we will just have to bid goodbye to our inner Monicas and Rachels and embrace the Pheobe within each of us. Let the wrinkles dance across our faces, telling the story of our tears and laughter. Let our waistlines expand in tribute to how much life we have tasted.

 

And let’s embrace our years instead of fighting to hide the marks they have left on us.

Prose and cons

Seeking solace in books, as the pandemic goes on and on…

 

As regular readers of this column will already know, the one thing that has kept me going through the Covid 19 pandemic has been reading. I have sought refuge in old favourites, books that are so familiar that sinking into them again feels akin to getting a warm hug from an old friend. I have expanded my horizons by trying out new authors, who came recommended by fellow book lovers, with somewhat mixed results. I have tried to lose myself in the alternate universes of fictional works in an attempt to escape from a reality that is hard to live with. I have attempted to improve myself by reading worthy non-fiction tomes, using the vast stretches of me-time now available to me.

 

But whatever the genre, whoever the author, however good or bad the book, it is reading that has sustained me through this difficult time. In case that works for you as well, here is a short list of recommendations based on what I have been reading these past few months.

 

The Margot Affair by Sanae Lemoine

 

The protagonist of this novel is 17-year-old Margot Louve, the love child of an unconventional actress and the French culture minister. Her father has a wife and other children and has never publicly acknowledged Margot, though he comes by to visit her often. Frustrated by this lack of public recognition, Margot confides the secret of her parentage to a sympathetic journalist. And that small ripple in the pond of her life sets off ramifications that Margot could never have imagined, creating a storm that nearly destroys everything in its path.

 

The Lying Life of Adults by Elena Ferrante

 

This isn’t in the league of the Neapolitan Quartet with which Ferrante found international fame, though it is set in roughly the same world. The story is told from the perspective of the adolescent Giovanna, whose whole world comes crashing down when she overhears her father tell her mother that he is afraid his daughter is turning into his sister, Vittoria, whose vulgarity her father has long hated. This pushes Giovanna into making contact with the aunt she has never met, to figure out what they have in common, a decision that changes both her life and that of her parents.

 

The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman

 

This is very much an English murder mystery in the style of Agatha Christie. But instead of being set in a bucolic English village or a stately home, it is set in a retirement community of those 65 and above. The Thursday Murder Club has four members who meet once a week to discuss old cases that the police have failed to solve. But then murder comes calling within their own circle, and they have a brand new case to focus on, if only they can inveigle their way into the official investigation – which, of course, they do. 

 

Win by Harlan Coben 

 

Fans of Coben will know Win – or, to use his full name, Windsor Horne Lockwood III – from the Myron Bolitar series. But here, the sidekick – if Win could ever be described as that – is the main protagonist. No, not so much the hero, as the anti-hero, whose flaws make him a more compelling character than a regular leading man could ever be. The book begins with the discovery of a body in a slightly creepy apartment in New York; a body that we soon discover has links with Win’s past. How far do those links go? Well, you will have to read to find out; I am posting no spoilers here.

 

One Two Three Four; The Beatles in Time by Craig Brown

 

Is there anything left to say about the Beatles? You would think not but Craig Brown, the celebrated British writer and humorist, manages to find new angles and tell parts of the story in anecdotes that may surprise even dedicated Beatles watchers. What was it like to be Ringo? Was Paul as shrewd as they say? Was George really so money minded? Was John an insensitive jerk? What about Jimmy Nicol, the short-lived Fifth Beatle, who temporarily replaced Ringo, only to see his life fall apart? It’s a fun read mixing the familiar with the surprising. 

 

The bell tolls...

Death comes calling in almost every household as Covid ravages our nation

 

On Monday, 3 May, Delhi recorded 448 deaths from Covid. One of them was my brother-in-law.

 

When my sister made a group video call to her daughters and me late at night, worried that my brother-in-law was having trouble breathing, despite being on an oxygen concentrator, none of us realized that the end was only an hour or so away. My brother-in-law was struggling for breath, but he was still well enough to speak. We tried to rally him around, encouraging him to do prone breathing. The nurse in attendance gave him his prescribed injections and set up a saline drip.

 

We thought he was feeling better when he got up and – assisted by the nurse and my sister – went to the loo. But the moment he came back and lay down on the bed again, he simply stopped breathing. We realized that only when we heard my sister’s panicked cries. The nurse tried to do CPR, but to no avail. The oximeter went blank, and he was gone. All we were left with were my sister’s heartbreaking sobs of anguish and disbelief.

 

We stayed on the call with her for another couple of hours, trying to comfort her as best we could. But what comfort can you offer a wife who has seen her husband pass away in front of her eyes? 

 

There are no words.

 

And in Covid times, there are no hugs either. There is no comforting embrace to offer. There is no shoulder for the bereaved to cry on. There is no presence of family to provide some solace and balm. 

 

In the absence of this, there is just a piercing loneliness. You are alone with your grief, alone with your thoughts, alone with your regrets, alone with your memories. 

 

There may be other people at the end of a video call, but to all intents and purposes, you are alone. 

But that is the nature of death in the times of Covid. You die alone, those that are left behind mourn alone, and you then begin the slow process of recovery all on your own. I can’t even begin to grapple with the unfathomable sorrow of it all. 

 

Not that my family is alone in suffering this loss. Thousands of families across the country are dealing with bereavement as Corona deaths mount with every passing day. But as we count our dead, we must not forget that those souls who have left us are not just statistics that tell us the story of how this pandemic has ravaged our country. Each of these numbers is a person who meant the world to those who loved him; who was, in fact, somebody’s entire world. 

 

My sister’s entire world, for instance, revolved around her husband. In recent years, as his health declined, she became his primary caregiver, monitoring his sugar levels and blood pressure with a zeal that would do any professional nurse proud. Her day was measured by the doses of medicines she would dole out to him. Her mission every day was to cook something that would tempt his appetite even a little. And once he went down with Covid, she monitored his oxygen levels with a hawk eye, adjusting the oxygen concentrator ever so often.

 

But her best efforts were not good enough in the face of the implacable march of this deadly disease. And now she has been left alone to mourn, even as she tries to recover from her own Covid infection. 

 

My brother-in-law’s last moments, which we witnessed on that video call, haunt all of us. There is a sense of abject helplessness, that we could do nothing to help him take just another breath, and then another and another… There is the horror of seeing someone you love pass away in front of your eyes, and not being able to even reach out and hug them close in their last moments.

 

But I hope in time that we will not remember him, Satish Kumar Bharadwaj, by the manner of his passing, but by the way he lived his life. That we will remember his unconditional love for his wife and daughters, we will celebrate his unquenchable zest for life, and we will keep the memory of his joyful spirit alive in our hearts.

 

Covid comes home

So, how does one deal with this feeling of impending doom?

With every passing week, Covid comes closer and closer home. First, it was colleagues who were testing positive. Next I heard of some close friends getting infected. Then, there was news of my neighbors falling ill. And now Corona has struck within my own family. 

My cousin and her husband, both doctors, tested positive — even after they had received both doses of the vaccine — though, thankfully, their symptoms are mild. Another cousin contracted Corona as well, along with members of her extended joint family, including her infant son. And as I write this, my aunt — who is in her 80s and bedridden — is showing symptoms though her test results are not in as yet.

I am, of course, far from unique in this. Sadly, this is the situation in every second family, as Covid cases increase exponentially across the country. In fact, such is the prevalence of infection that it seems as if it is only a matter of time before Corona invades our bodies as well. As a consequence, a sense of weary inevitability has overtaken us all, bringing with it both depression and dejection in equal measure. 

So, how does one deal with this feeling of impending doom? How does one cope with rising anxiety levels? And how best to rise above the general mood of pessimism and strive for a little cheer in these testing times?

Well, the first thing to do is stop doom scrolling. I know, I know, I am a fine one to talk given how much time I spend on Twitter, though I justify it on the grounds that I am retweeting and amplifying Covid-related requests. But too much bad news, consumed all day, can bring down anybody’s spirits. So, it might make sense to switch off every couple of hours and do something to destress — read a book, listen to music, cook a meal, whatever works for you. 

It is a given that during times like these, your worries will tend to overwhelm you. But instead of trying to shove them away — a futile effort, at the best of times — embrace them and channel them into some positive activity. If you are worried about the health of your near and dear ones, and are too far away to look after them yourself, try and make their lives a little easier, say by organizing delivery of home-cooked meals for them. Do your bit for the community by collating information about hospitals and medicines and making it available to all. It’s not much, I accept, but every little bit helps.

If your health permits, then volunteer to help out those Covid patients in your neighborhood who are isolating alone at home and have no one to look after them. Assist them with getting medicines and groceries, set up a rota so that they have home-cooked meals three times a day, and keep their spirits up with regular phone or video calls. If working on your own seems daunting, then join an organization that is helping out, using whatever skill set you possess. If your neighborhood gurudwara is making meals for Covid patients, for instance, sign up for a couple of shifts in the langar kitchen. 

Do your bit to combat Covid disinformation in your Whatsapp groups or family circles. If you encounter vaccine hesitancy then do your best to dispel it. Do this with sensitivity and love, because everybody is scared and hurting right now. 

But in all this, don’t ignore your own physical and mental health. If the lockdown is keeping you home, get an hour of exercise in, even if it is just walking on your terrace or doing a spot if yoga or Pilates on your drawing room floor. Try and eat healthy as far as you can, but don’t beat yourself up if you cheat with some fries or ice cream once in a while. 

The key lies in finding pleasure in small things. It could be an old book, in whose pages who can rediscover happier times. It could be in a glass of wine, that helps you decompress after a hard day. Or it could be in a new Netflix show, that helps you forget your everyday cares for a while. 

Just do whatever works for you. And in time, this too shall pass.